Inhale, Exhale
by E J Mulford
Summary: "Fingertips prod at protruding ribs and lean, wiry muscle. The worst scars stand out sharply on your abdomen and back; still pink and jagged, even after all this time. They are the biggest burns and deepest cuts, and they will take the longest to fade." Sherlock returns a different man to the one who left, in more ways than one, and learns that sometimes there may be no going back.


I've been working on this for months now, and it's served as a form of self-therapy to keep me grounded through my recent health problems. I'm not completely satisfied, but I've reached the point where I need to stop nit-picking and let it go. With everything the fandom has been through in the past week (which I must admit I'm reluctant to bring up) I've decided to dedicate this story to some very important people:

anotherwellkeptsecret - for the absolutely gorgeous art she makes and for inspiring me everyday.

thescienceofjohnlock - for being a total badass and all-round amazing human being.

vanimelda4 - I couldn't ask for a lovelier reader or, even more so, a better friend.

atlinmerrick - to whom I promise to keep writing for Sherlock, loud and proud.

mildredandbobbin - whose courage and grace I admire so, so much.

And, last but definitely not least, the Sherlock fandom as a whole. I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

Let's stay strong and positive and look forward to season 3! The next chapter of AKWTE should be up before then.

**Trigger Warnings: **depression, mentions of torture, mentions of past drug use, some kinda NSFW if that's not your thing.

xxxx

**Inhale, Exhale**

Sherlock x John

Johnlock

xxxx

x

"_When we were in flames, _

_I needed, I needed you,_

_To run through my veins, _

_Like disease, disease,_

_And now we are strange,_

_Strangers."_

Daughter – Winter.

x

You are bleeding.

Internally.

_Jagged bits of bone poking into torn muscle and severed arteries and collapsing organs, the very sinews of your transport snapped and shattered._

Externally.

_A steady stream of red running down over your lips, chased by a thin rivulet from the re-opened cut above your blackening eye._

Inhale.

_You knew he would hit you. You knew when you asked him here after three long years that he would be angry, furious even, with what you did. You knew he would lose his temper, would lash out, would try to break you the way you broke him. _

Exhale.

_He bruised your flesh and drew your blood and did not know that you are already broken._

xxx

x

You hiss at the burn of ice against your beaten skin, flinching away and banging your elbow on the edge of the kitchen table. She tuts and rolls her eyes, and hands you the tea towel-wrapped cold compress to apply yourself._ She_ is blonde-haired and blue-eyed, _she_ is petite, _she_ is standing and filling the kettle to make tea in a flat that she has no right to be in. Over the noise of the kettle boiling you hear her say, "John always said you never wore ties," with a gesture to the double Windsor knotted at your throat.

You look at her and she looks at you and your eyes narrow and, "Primary teacher, only child, parents both dead, married six months, still haven't worked out that his favourite flavour jam is _blueberry_," you shoot back, the words as sharp and pointed as daggers as they leave your mouth. You hope they'll wound like daggers, too. She smiles. Spoons sugar into a teacup, tells you he'll be back once he's calmed down. "Of course he'll be back," you mutter. _We're bound to one another like the sun and the moon, trapped in unbreakable orbit_. You think, secretly, he will be pleased you've brushed up on your knowledge of the solar system. She smiles again. Pours the tea. Her wedding band catches in the late-afternoon light.

_John doesn't belong to you!_ you want to scream. _He was mine first, my blogger, my doctor, my best friend._

But John is not yours anymore.

He hasn't been yours for a very, very long time.

xxx

x

John does come back, an hour later with curling fists and an expressionless face. He doesn't pull you into a hug like you thought he would, like the sentimental doctor you once knew would have done. But he does sit down opposite you, in his old armchair, and _Mary_ hands him a cup of tea and leaves to _give you boys some alone time_.

What she really leaves you with is silence, tense and suffocating. It sinks into your ears and down your throat, settles heavy in the bottom of your lungs, weighs against the thunderous beats of your heart. John doesn't seem able to look at you, allowing his tea to go cold as he stares at a hole in the carpet by his feet. You want to explain yourself. Explain the snipers, explain why it had to be this way. But you cannot speak. Your tongue feels thick, your mouth dry, and some kind of obstruction appears to be forming in your windpipe; he looks just the same as the day you died, if a little more crinkled here and there, and the ash-blonde of his hair is giving way to a distinguished silver. He wears it well.

Something prickles hot and stinging behind your eyes.

_Sentiment._

He asks, eventually, in a soft voice, "What's with the tie?"

You fight to answer him, "Open collars are dull."

The edge of his mouth twitches up, and you smile instinctively in response.

xxx

x

Mrs Hudson has done a good job of keeping 221B in order in your absence, allowing you to move back in effortlessly, slotting into the space you left behind the way you hoped. Well. Almost. The flat is cold, now. Empty. There's no one to remind you to eat a biscuit here, a sandwich there. There's no one to pull the covers over you when exhaustion finally catches you up, collapsing in a tangled heap on your bed. And there's no one to put a steady, callused hand on your shoulder and shake you out of the terrifying nightmares that haunt you. You sob and shiver in your sleep. The kitchen seems to be letting in a chill. 221B Baker Street is just a flat, because John does not live here anymore. And how can it possibly be a home without him?

xxx

x

You are burning.

Fighting.

_Battling a raging fever in an overwhelmed hospital in Mumbai, long legs twisting in soaked sheets, bare skin shivering and damp with sweat. Ebon curls shorn down to peach fuzz, a week's worth of bristles itching on your jaw. You don't know who you are._

Crumbling.

_Someone is screaming. A name, echoing off cracked walls and cavernous ceilings. It coils in the smoke from used cigarette butts, glints on red-hot steel, crackles across blades heated in fire. Distantly, you think it might belong to a psychosomatic limp and a warm smile, but the thought slips through your fingers like vapour and there is nothing. There is nothing but the pain and the black, laughing eyes of Sebastian Moran as he carves into your skin._

Inhale.

_You jerk awake, frightened cry swallowed whole by the stifling silence of an otherwise empty flat. Heart hammering, alabaster flesh clammy and slick. Terror and adrenaline, icewater in your veins._

Exhale.

_The name is reduced to a whisper on your lips, a plea to the darkened ceiling of your bedroom. Its owner does not come running. He is not around to hear you._

xxx

x

Lestrade texts you with cases, night and day; it seems the Department has been quite overwhelmed without you, and you take each and every case you're offered. But it's no longer boredom that you need to be distracted from. You feel John's absence like a hole inside you, another gaping wound to go along with all the others. It's crippling, it's raw and jagged and you understand, now, that you were wrong in thinking it would alleviate once you returned. Because this is a choice. John's choice to avoid you, to ignore your texts and hopeful requests that he join you at a crime scene. You imagine, with an almost frightening frequency, that you can hear him moving around upstairs or bustling about with tea in the kitchen. Sometimes it's even a comfort. And it hurts more than you ever knew it could.

xxx

x

You know this darkness.

You've felt it before, a long time ago, when the taunting and hatred of ordinary people began to take a toll on your superior – but young – mind. Of course, back then you believed you could fight it, could conquer it with your intellect as long as you remained detached. Cold. Uncaring. And when cutting deductions and heartless remarks failed, you tried to escape it. You fled and you hid inside yourself, in the slide of hypodermic needles and the wonderful, blissful buzz of heroin in your veins. And when the heroin wasn't enough there was the cocaine, too, another perfectly sweet distraction from one high to the next. But this time, you know that the darkness is part of you. It is the rush of air in your ears as you fall over and over, the rust of your own blood in your eyes and in your mouth. It is a black door, locked and bolted deep within you.

This time, you will let yourself be consumed.

Because behind that door is an empty room. And how can you escape from that?

xxx

x

You are breathing.

Shakily.

_You open the door and there he is. Hair a mess, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, red-rimmed eyes watery and sore. He's been crying and suddenly you're lying prone on concrete, bloody and barely-conscious, hearing him scream your name, watching John Watson break, Oh God, no._

Deeply.

_You swallow, hard, when you see that his wedding ring is missing, and the 'why?' gets caught on the tip of your tongue. John notices. The edges of his mouth twitch up in a weak attempt at a smile. "You don't know, do you?" he murmurs._

Inhale.

_Your eyes sweep over his form once more and see nothing, no deduction to jump forward and explain why John's marriage has failed. Why, of all the people in the world, he has turned to you. John shakes his head as if banishing a ridiculous thought. "It's nothing," he says quietly. "I'd like to come home." He hesitates. "If you'll have me."_

Exhale.

_Later, a shock of warmth will roll down your spine when you realise that he called you 'home'. _

xxx

x

He doesn't question the clean sheets on his old bed, nor the uncharacteristic tidiness of the place, the lack of body parts on the table. You offer no explanations. Instead you shower, and dress for the first time in what feels like weeks. By the time you're presentable, the kettle has just finished boiling and John is quietly making tea. You stand in the doorway, watch him pour hot water into two mugs with shaking hands. You imagine what he'd say if he knew you haven't taken a case in almost a month. What he would do if he knew about the nightmares, the scars under your clothes, the old temptation to stick a needle in your arm and just _forget_. Forget what you were. Forget what you've become.

John finishes making the tea. Turns and leans back, gripping the edge of the counter. And when he looks at you there is so much hurt, so much regret in his eyes that you feel it like a knife between your ribs. _I'm sorry_, you open your mouth to say. _I'm so sorry_. But all that comes out is a hoarse rasp of, "John." He sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath. His knuckles are turning white. If these last few months – _years_ – have taught you anything, it is that John Watson has somehow woven himself into the flesh and bone of you, into the fibre of your being. The sun isn't warm without him, every breath is hollow and the work is just that; work. There's no fun in the science of deduction unless John is there to grin his amazement, to giggle and throw a wink your way when Lestrade isn't looking.

You wonder what it all means.

Clearing your throat, you rumble, "That jumper is horrendous." John blinks. And then he starts to laugh, rough but so familiar, echoing off the kitchen tile.

"Yeah," he finally huffs in reply, a watery smile curving his lips. "Yeah, it is. Bastard."

xxx

x

By the end of the week, you have a case. At first it appears to be little more than a simple run-of-the mill theft, but then you uncover a few interesting (metaphorical) family skeletons, and the next thing you know the Game is _on_. You and John are caught up in a media whirlwind once again, your names splashed across papers and the ten o'clock news, and with this return to fame come all the usual insinuations:

_The Baker Street Duo, Purely Platonic or Long-Time Lovers?_

_Holmes & Watson: Crime-Solving Couple Reunited_

_Lovesick Watson Leaves Wife for Holmes!_

It's the same old story, and for the most part you let it go over your head. Occasionally you read the more amusing articles aloud, point out the inconsistencies and the sheer ridiculousness of the whole fiasco. You can no longer deny the power of sentiment. But love? That _is_ a chemical defect, one that interferes with the mind and the work, and you can't afford that now can you? John smiles silently, and continues unpacking the few small boxes of his possessions. The case seems to be distracting him from the divorce proceedings that will soon begin – but you don't miss the way he grows quiet and despondent when you read from the papers and, thinking it must remind him of Mary, you soon stop looking at them altogether.

Discussion of your time apart is taboo: an unspoken rule keeps those three years and four months of your lives in the past. Not forgotten, because how can _you_ forget what is gauged and burned into your flesh? What you keep locked away in that deep, dark place inside you? But there is a mutual understanding that, right now, talk of those things would do more harm than good. What you both need is the comforting familiarity of the friendship you forged, the thrill of the chase, just the two of you against the world. And so you take more cases. Order takeout. Hunt down suspects, laugh with your backs pressed up against the wall of 221 until tears are rolling down your cheeks, and all the while you tug unconsciously at the collar of your shirt, buttoned all the way to the top, a restriction that you are not yet used to. You will not risk John knowing of your scars; he's already suffered enough hurt on your behalf, and hurt is what he'll do if he sees the irreversible damage inflicted upon your transport.

Strange, you think, how your pain is his pain.

Even stranger, you know, how his pain is yours.

xxx

x

You are falling.

Slowly.

_As time goes on, it becomes clear to you that something is different. You can't put a finger on what it is, but something has changed in you, and it's not just the psychological impact of torture and murder._

Surely.

_You're experiencing regular warm flushes. Palpitations, too, and the occasional shiver, a prickle of goosebumps up the back of your neck. _

Inhale.

_This, combined with a slight heady feeling, leads you to eventually conclude that you are ill. Possibly flu, though a summer variety of the common cold seems more probable. But there are two blips in the data, one being that the onset of these feelings is circumstantial._

Exhale.

_The other is that they are strangely not unpleasant._

xxx

x

Clambering into the back of the taxi, you bark directions at the driver just as a stormy-looking John gets in beside you. "What the hell was all that about?" he asks, turning to you with his brows knitted. You huff, and pull your collar up despite the hot flush creeping onto your cheeks. "I'm serious, Sherlock!" John continues, "You can't just go off on one every time you're in a foul mood, it's not Greg's – "

"For God's sake," you interrupt with a roll of your eyes. "I was hardly rude!"

"_You called him a_ – "

"Keep it down lads, if yer don't mind!" The driver breaks into the conversation and throws you both a disgruntled look in the rear-view mirror. "Some a' us 'ave an 'eadache." John's eyes are dark, but he closes his mouth with a snap and turns his gaze out of the window, fingers flexing on his thigh. Guilt roils in your chest, because you know that you really _were_ rather impolite, and John's anger is not unfounded. But it's not as if you didn't have your reasons. You'd been dragged out for something that was a four at the most, to a crime scene that had been completely ruined by Lestrade's officers, and to top it all off you had one of your…._funny spells_….whilst inspecting the area.

_Ugh_. You wrinkle your nose. All the usual effects: light-headedness, sudden inexplicable increase in body temperature, dryness of the mouth, loss of focus. This is getting out of hand. Something needs to be done. Reaching up to undo the very top button of your shirt, you attempt to burrow deeper into the folds of your coat and mutter, "John, I think you're sick." The older man's head snaps round like lightning, but you press on before he can speak. "I think you've contracted some kind of virus from the Surgery and, without experiencing illness yourself, passed it on to me. I've…not been feeling well." You daren't look at him, but that decision is made for you. There's a sigh and a rustle of fabric, and John is leaning across the seat and taking your chin between his forefinger and thumb. His face has softened now, slipping into doctor mode and fixing you with the usual mixture of irritation and affection.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks, and you shrug, because you both know that you rarely bother yourself with matters of health. John lays the back of his hand gently against your forehead. He hums, frowning. "You _are_ a bit warm…" Releasing your chin, John tugs at the collar of your coat and blinks incredulously. "Bloody hell, Sherlock." You remain silent, lips pressed tightly together; judging from the burning sensation spreading across your skin, your entire face must be flushing red.

John wraps fingers and thumb around your wrist. "Describe the symptoms," he instructs as he starts to measure your pulse with his wristwatch. You look fixedly at the back of the driver's head in front of you, and have to clear your throat before you can answer.

"Dizziness. Palpitations, shivers, sweating…" John's fingers feel so _hot_ against your skin. "Difficulty concentrating. Twisting of the stomach. A tight feeling, here…" You lift one gloved hand and press it to the centre of your covered chest. "Sometimes it's as though I forget to breathe."

"What brought it on this morning?" Your brow creases.

"A few minutes ago," you reply, confusion obvious in your tone, "when I was examining the broken window. You came up to me to see the damage for yourself. It started then." You try to swallow, but your mouth is parched. "I'm afraid it might have had some influence on my…outburst."

You glance to John, expecting your sheepish smile to be met with exasperation. But the doctor is simply staring at you now, lips parted and surprised blue eyes blinking slowly. His fingers are still pressed against your pulse. In an instant you are scanning your hard drive for anything related to serious diseases, thinking you may have described the symptoms of some terrible, debilitating illness. Then John murmurs, "_Oh_."

"Yes John, very helpful," you say sarcastically, trying not to snap but growing impatient. "I can already tell you that my pulse rate is elevated, my body temperature is continuing to rise, and before you ask the answer is two months. _Months_, John!" The driver mutters something about volume from the front seat, and you shoot him a dark look before lowering your voice. "I cannot concentrate on the work like this, I need it to stop. How do I stop it, John? What do I do?" Some part of what you say must hit home for the blogger, because in the next moment he swallows, a muscle tightening in his jaw.

"It sounds like…a cold," he replies, just a tad hesitantly. He releases his grip on you and sits back in his seat. "Nothing to worry about." Logic tells you that these are not cold symptoms, but John has already turned his gaze to the passing streets of London. "It'll pass." Something instinctual in you begs to differ, but you say nothing more.

And if the absence of John's touch turns you suddenly colder, you keep it firmly to yourself.

xxx

x

A few weeks later, laughter wakes you from a comatose sleep. Not the familiar, silly chuckle of John, either, but something much sharper. High-pitched giggling, loud and infuriating and very distinctly female. You groan aloud into your pillow. For the past two days you've been sleeping off the aftermath of a case, and in all honesty you knew this would happen sooner or later, no matter how much you were hoping it wouldn't. It has been three months and fourteen days since the divorce came through.

John has a woman round.

This realisation strikes a hidden chord in you, unearthing an unexpected sting of feeling. Something raw and jealous coils in your abdomen, unfurling like a wisp of smoke. Really, can't women manage to keep their hands off him for any serious length of time? Can they not see that he unmistakeably, irrefutably belongs to _you_? A distinctly reluctant voice grumbles in the back of your mind that well, no, John Watson's heart is not yours to command – but the newspapers all seem to believe it is, and that should be enough for the small-minded people of today. You don't know where this sudden feeling came from. You aren't even sure you care, because you're already heaving yourself up. Best go and see what new challenge has presented itself. Irritation fuels you as you glide, scowling, out of your bedroom.

The woman in question is a slender thing, pale and dark-haired with green eyes and red lipstick. She's sitting at the kitchen table with John, drinking tea and peering over his shoulder as he types up the latest case. She mutters something in the doctor's ear that makes him snort, laughing into his cup. You _hate _her, instantly. "You must be Sherlock," she says, with a pearly white smile in your direction. "I'm Victoria." You quirk an eyebrow, mustering a look of extreme distaste as you move towards the kettle. Casually, you enquire,

"And did you change it before or after the abusive boyfriend? Or perhaps it was after the breast implants, or the failed marriage?" John gapes at you in a combination of horror and disbelief, mouth open and fingers freezing on the keys. But all _Victoria_ does is tut, with a crimson pout and pitying eyes, as though watching an infant struggle to walk.

"Oh, honey," she sighs, "You'll have to do better than that. Perhaps it would be easier without that stick up your arse?"

Surprise makes you go quite still. But you don't miss the smile twitching at the edge of John's mouth, and you definitely don't understand the way it pulls at your navel.

xxx

x

You are drowning.

Sinking.

_Despite your best efforts, Victoria doesn't disappear. In fact she seems impervious to insult or offence of any kind, and becomes a regular fixture of 221B. But what concerns you just as much as the frequency of John's Date Nights is the presentation – and severity – of a new set of symptoms._

Suffocating.

_They are worse than the others, which still will not fade. This new illness comes in the form of pain; twisting and nauseating in the pit of your stomach, sharp and spiky behind the cage of your ribs._

Inhale.

_It aches when John learns that reading aloud will bring you out of a sulk._

Exhale.

_It throbs when John leans in to kiss Victoria goodnight._

xxx

x

"_Sherlock!"_ John hammers on the door. "For God's sake, let me in!"

"I don't require your attention, John," you call back, the words coming out surprisingly steady. You pull open the top drawer of your dresser, wincing. "It was barely a scratch."

"You infuriating, _insane_ – " Retrieving a small first aid kit from the depths of your sock index, pain finally claims the last of your patience.

"I can see to it myself!" you snap. "Now if you don't mind, kindly sod off and allow me to concentrate!" A string of grumbles and curses float in from the kitchen, but John finally backs down, and you pop the kit open on your bed. What began as a fairly normal pursuit of a guilty suspect through the backstreets of London was brought to an abrupt end not forty minutes ago, when the young man in question found himself cornered and, panicking, reached into the depths of his jacket. Your fingers fumble with the buttons of your shirt.

The knife did not cut deep. It really is hardly more than a scratch, for all the dried blood sticking purple silk to your skin, and you were aware of this even as it happened. John, however, was somewhat less calm: catching up just in time to see a flash of steel and red, the doctor's hands were on you in an instant, pulling you close, pressing against the wound, trying to tug your shirt open to inspect the damage. It was only with a great deal of effort that you managed to keep your buttons closed – but by then the suspect had vanished into the night, and what followed in the taxi home was a lot of frustrated ranting from you and seemingly endless fussing from John. You won't allow him to tend to you himself. You won't allow him to see.

Your ruined shirt is tossed carelessly into a corner. It only takes a moment for you to clean the wound with antiseptic, covering it with a large plaster to stop your clothes from chafing. No stitches required, and at this point you aren't particularly concerned about scarring, as you have a multitude of those already. On cue, your hands drift down of their own accord, ghosting over your bare torso. Fingertips prod at protruding ribs and lean, wiry muscle. The bedside lamp doesn't provide much light, but if you turn just so you can make out most of the marks marring your skin in the floor-length mirror against the wall. The worst ones stand out sharply on your abdomen and back; still pink and jagged, even after all this time. They are the biggest burns and deepest cuts, and they will take the longest to fade. Your Adam's apple bobs in your throat. Once upon a time, you would have dismissed them as irrelevant: the body is just transport, after all. But now? Now, the idea that your physical appearance would repulse others, repulse _John_…it's more than you can bear. And that's why you are always sure to cover up, why you are so careful that he should not see you. Every inch of pain you have endured is now permanently imprinted on your skin, your nightmares and darkness turned outward.

You think of Victoria and the other women John has brought home over the years, with their full, flawless figures. The way John looks at them with so much appreciation, so much ardour. That look must smoulder during intercourse. Smoulder and flame and blaze, as strong and captivating as the blogger himself. You've never been particularly interested in sex – _boring, pointless_ – but you can't help the curiosity that sparks inside you, that wonders what it's like to be on the receiving end of such a look. To be the object of John's intimate desire. You're startled by how badly you wish you could know. Just for a second. A moment. That's all you would have before he saw you, before he felt them, and the fire of his want was extinguished by disgust.

"Sherlock? Everything alright in there?"

You swallow, hard, and know that it will never be alright.

xxx

x

It's not your fault.

An age-old protest, but this time it's true – it is not your fault. Victoria had been completely unmoved by your meddling antics for an entire two months, no matter how vicious the deductions or how many severed body parts found their way into her belongings. Whatever caused her to suddenly change her mind about dating John, it was not your doing. Not that one would think it, judging by John's behaviour. The doctor had been acting strangely all morning, quiet and reserved. In fact, he'd barely uttered a word to you save for a mumble of, "You want a cuppa?" seemingly trying his best to avoid making eye contact with you. And yet here you are in the morgue at Barts, leaning speechless over a corpse, having sarcastically asked how last night's date with Victoria went and received a rather unexpected reply. You blink at him, slowly, and hardly dare to believe what you're hearing.

"Excuse me?" John doesn't look up from his inspection of the dead woman's fingernails.

"We broke up," he repeats, the words coming out more bluntly this time. You can tell just from the tone of his voice that he doesn't want to talk about it, even as your heart skips a beat and something jerks in the pit of your stomach. No more Victoria. No more Date Nights. No more hand-holding on the sofa or sneaky kisses when they think you aren't looking. No more, at least for a little while, of that terrible pain nestling spiky and sharp in the very core of you. The weight that lifts from your shoulders is indescribable.

"Why?" You can't help but ask, loud enough for Molly to hear from where she's fidgeting awkwardly a few feet away. You could care less about being overheard, about the body you're supposed to be examining; you need to know. You need to know what it was that made Victoria break up with John, for it _was _her who did the dumping. What could she possibly have found to complain about him? John Watson, who is so fiercely kind, astoundingly loyal, profoundly brave? Who heals, who kills, who is so outwardly average but inwardly extraordinary?

John is a paradox, a riddle, an enigma – endlessly, beautifully fascinating.

How could anyone find fault in that?

A muscle tightens in the blogger's jaw. "Nothing important," is his short, clipped reply, before he moves on to the checking the victim's neck and nape for bruising. You are not satisfied with the blatant lie, and only slightly discouraged by the pursing of his lips. Leaning forward under the pretence of scrutinising a suspicious mark on an ankle, your eyes instead take John in with one sweeping gaze: irritation draws his brows low. A soldier's determination pervades his posture. It takes you a mere second to deduce that he is angry with someone, the same someone responsible for the break-up, and it seems completely, transparently obvious to you just who that person is. You've been getting on the wrong side of John's temper for years, but this time it feels more than just a bit Not Good.

"It isn't my fault, John," you rumble, not sure why you are suddenly feeling so guilty. Victoria had been impossible to scare away.

"I didn't say it was."

"Your behaviour towards me today suggest otherwise."

You straighten up, abandoning any attempt to look interested in the corpse; Molly is now edging out of the room anyway, your voices steadily rising in volume. John's palms are splayed on the autopsy table, bottom lip pulled between his teeth, and he's fixing Ms Richards' pale face with a darkening look. "Just drop it, Sherlock," he mutters. "Drop it." Above the buzz of frustration, you are trying hard to ignore the sensation of your insides tying themselves in knots. John is angry with you and you can't stand it, want to take it all back, want to ask for his forgiveness even though you know you can't possibly be responsible. But for all its genius, your mind cannot fathom these emotions, and what actually comes out of your mouth is:

"If anything John, it is far more likely that it's _your _fault." Finally the doctor's head shoots up, and for the briefest moment he looks as though he's been slapped.

"_My _fault?" You want to bite your tongue off. That wasn't what you meant to say. That wasn't what you _wanted_ to say. John laughs, high and false as he steps away from the table, expression one of incredulity. "Of course," he says, "Of course it is. It _always_ is."

"John – " You try to speak but he carries on, growing progressively more agitated, louder and louder.

"I didn't ask for it, Sherlock, I really didn't!" he declares with a wild gesture of his hand. "But _of course_ – it's my fault for being unable to let go! My fault for wanting what I can't have! For being so damn naïve and hopeful that it makes me _sick _– "

"What on Earth are you talking about?" You break in before John can launch into a full-scale rant (never a pleasant experience), feeling another jolt in your midriff. You don't know what it is, but there's a look in John's eyes that pierces straight through you, an unknown emotion in those deep blue depths that _hurts_. Swallowing, your interruption seems to derail the doctor's train of thought. He stares at you and licks his lip, cheeks flushing red with what you can only presume is embarrassment. After a long, awkward minute of silence, you can pinpoint the exact moment that the anger leaves him; he sighs, deep and heavy, his shoulders sagging and his gaze breaking away from yours.

"Of course," he murmurs again, in an entirely different tone this time. Resignation drags the words from his mouth. "Of course."

And with that he turns away from you, crossing quickly to the door, and walks out.

xxx

x

You don't see him again until it's dark outside, trying and failing to sneak into the flat like a guilty teenager. You hear him hesitate when he spots you, folded up in your armchair with your arms around your knees, staring off into space. Fully retreating into your mind palace is proving impossible thanks to the throbbing ache behind your ribs.

A light _thunk_ brings you out of a semi-thoughtful daze. John has set a cup of tea down on the table beside you. "I'm sorry I shouted," he says softly, sincerely, to the floor. "You were right. It's not your fault, it's mine. I'm the one with the problem." Something about his tone makes the ache flare, spreading out along your nerves and limbs – and as he moves to walk away, your long fingers reach out and grab at the hem of his jumper. He stills immediately.

You look up at John, at the gentle curve of his belly under the cable knit, at the dark circles and mussed hair. You look up at the soldier in his bearing, the doctor in his hands, the human in his tired, regretful blue eyes and you hope he knows, hope he understands that if the newspapers were right about where John's affection lies…you could never find a fault in him that would persuade you to leave. He is not just part of the work, anymore. He is part of you.

John smiles, weakly, and lays a hand on your shoulder.

Your self-control shatters.

You give in to your burning curiosity, and let yourself imagine that there is more than gratitude in his touch. You imagine that he, too, feels warmth rush through him at the contact, that this is just one of many touches he bestows upon you throughout the day. You imagine that his fingertips linger on the small of your back, the point of your elbow, the nape of your neck. That you are the one he takes out to dinner and shows off to his old army friends, the one he seeks out in a crowd, the one he depends on. That you can take his hand whenever you like, not just when you are fleeing the police, and that you orbit one another in a way you never thought you could want.

You imagine that John is _yours_.

And everything changes.

xxx

x

It's late. Past midnight. Everyone around you has long since reached varying stages of inebriation, and at least half of them are now wearing some part of the cheap, tacky festive decorations that were put up around the Department. Standing silently in the doorway, you attempt to disguise your irritation by taking a sip from your glass of wine, and think you could pickpocket Lestrade for inviting you to the Yard's annual Christmas party. In fact, you will. Lifting his badge will be easy, especially as he seems to be relying largely on Anderson – who on Earth invited _him_? – to keep him upright. The Detective Inspector laughs, loud and uncontrollable over by the water cooler, and doesn't appear to notice Dimmock subtly trying to wrangle the millionth lager can out of his hand. Your mouth twists in a brief display of something like amusement. The place is packed with people; most of them you don't know, officers from the Yard and their spouses, romantic attachments or other plus-ones. All of them are boring and ordinary, even those who you consider to be your 'friends'. It's horrendously dull. Honestly, you wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for a certain ex-army doctor grinning at you _just right_, and making your will to resist melt away into nothing.

Oh, John Watson. _Damn you_.

You know he's close by, hovering near Donovan's desk talking to Molly and her latest boyfriend. But you won't look. You won't look because every time you do John is being swarmed by just about every unattached woman in the vicinity, young and old, looking far too eager for your liking. They've been pawing and giggling and blushing and John, ever the _ladies'_ man, has been flirting and winking right back. _All night_. It's enough to turn your stomach, something raw and possessive crawling about under your skin. You don't want them touching him. You don't want them drawing his attention. Stealing it from _you_. You're jealous, positively green with it and this _situation_ has gotten completely out of control and _it is really, very inconvenient that he's so – _

"Alright?" John steps suddenly into the doorway beside you, nursing a glass of scotch, and within seconds you take him in. Slightly drunk. Light grey suit, perfectly emphasising what fitness of physique he has left from the army. Blue, open-collared, button-up shirt that matches the colour of his eyes. Soft tan skin and an easy smile. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding._ Beautiful_. Clearing your throat, you manage a simple,

"Yes," in reply. For a few moments you both fall silent, watching the rest of the party go on. But you are heating up. All over, tingling and hot, a nervous flush, a confusing pull in the pit of your stomach. You quickly find yourself thankful for the excessive amount of Christmas lights and the soft, dim glow they cast over the room.

_Too hot stifling don't understand_.

"Here, let me," comes a gentle voice from your left, only a tiny bit slurred, and as John steps closer you realise you've been absent-mindedly tugging at the tie around your neck, feeling choked. A small noise of protest escapes you, but it's too late; John has already pushed his scotch into your free hand and is reaching up to re-do the double Windsor you've managed to ruin. You tense at the first touch of his hands to your collar as he tugs it up, and pulls the Windsor out of your tie to start all over again. He's so close that you can feel the heat of his body, the whisper of his fingers neatly re-working the knot. Smell the light tang of alcohol lingering on him, and under a waft of rich aftershave the familiar, earthy musk that to you will always mean _safe. Home. _Callused fingertips graze your neck when he folds the collar back down. You fail to repress a shiver: his breath is surprisingly warm against your throat.

Goosebumps erupt in waves across your skin, every nerve alight and crackling with electricity, and for a moment – one brief, never-ending moment – the blood and bone and muscle of you contract in a surge of pure, unadulterated _want_.

And then the palm of John's hand presses over your chest.

The spell is broken instantly. You freeze, afraid that he will feel the scars, will work out what you've been hiding from him. But John only smiles, warm and happy. Takes you in, from the tip of your toes to the ends of your curls. His blue eyes flicker skyward, and he says softly, "Mistletoe." You swallow, hard. It's a colossal effort to tear your gaze away from that face, so perfectly lined and creased with a lifetime of hardship and laughter. But you somehow manage to glance up at the ceiling and there, sure enough, is a little sprig of plastic leaf and berries. You are well aware of what societal tradition dictates should happen next. When you turn back John is watching you, and it's as though inches of the space between you have evaporated as you stare at him, dumbstruck, before his gaze wavers. Down. Up. The bottom drops out of your navel. _He can't_, you tell yourself, suddenly breathless with anticipation, with fear, with hope. _He can't possibly_…

A brush of fingers over your own brings you crashing back to Earth. You're holding a half-empty glass of scotch in that hand. He's been drinking. Your stomach lurches as you remember that he isn't in his right mind, and you don't even want to check whether or not your tie is knotted properly. _Of course_. You shove the scotch towards him, pushing past and disappearing into the throngs of drunken strangers.

No, John will not work it out. John will never know, and he will never want a creature as broken as you.

xxx

x

You are dreaming.

Blessing.

_You've never been kissed before. You've always seen it as an unhygienic, rather unpleasant act, and you've made a point of resolutely avoiding it all your life. So why, then, is this all you dream of? Why do you find such incredible pleasure in the wet warmth of John's mouth against yours?_

Curse.

_It's an exquisite, delicious agony, and it's so dangerous and you know after the first dream that you need to stop but you can't, you __can't__ and hell, God only knows that deep down you don't want to. You want John. You want __more__._

Inhale.

_Hands fist in your curls, your shirt, and in dreams John kisses you with a kind of desperate fervour that he could never feel for you in real life. Up against the kitchen table, at a crime scene, in the back of a cab. He is a storm, a hurricane, overwhelming and inescapable. He is the exhilaration of solving a difficult case, the adrenaline rush that scrambles your brain and shakes your knees and fills your thundering heart with so much joy you think it might burst._

Exhale.

_John is the most wonderful, addictive high on the face of the Earth, and you hope you'll never wake up._

_But, of course, you do._

xxx

x

Distantly you're aware of the shower shutting off, but not the creak of the door or the rustle of a bathrobe; too absorbed are you in categorising bacteria and musing over last night's imaginary escapades with John, all smouldering eyes and firm lips and hands and – "Angelo's tonight?" You look up, startled, guilt already flushing pink across your cheeks even though he can't possibly have any idea what it is you're thinking of. He's grinning, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel as he stands there waiting for your response. Your mouth goes dry. Your heart skips staccato against your ribcage.

_A simple yes or no will suffice, Sherlock. Not that hard_.

You imagine sliding your hands into salt and pepper locks, feeling the softness of them between your fingers; finer than any silk you've ever worn, turning to molten gold in the warm light of summer days when he wears dust motes and sunshine like a halo. You imagine him under a steady stream of hot water, following the rivulets down the smooth column of his throat, over the thrum of a reliable pulse to the point where his neck and shoulder meet. Is he sensitive there? Does he like to be kissed there, or bitten perhaps – that's a _thing_ isn't it, a thing that people do? One of those 'kinks' that you always hear him talking about with Lestrade and Dimmock. Your heart is _so loud. _What would he do if someone were to nibble there? If someone were to latch on at the height of his pleasure and suck a bruise into the tan flesh as he fell apart? What would he look like from that angle as he reached orgasm? You've never had one of those before, either.

Then you remind yourself that he is beautiful and you are not. You only seem to ruin beautiful things, and to ruin John Watson would be the most grievous sin imaginable. Licking your lip, something vaguely resembling a voice crawls out of your throat. "Yes," you answer hoarsely, and turn back to the bacteria so you won't have to meet the strange, confused look John is giving you. Surely he can hear the blood pounding through arteries, veins, capillaries, thrumming like a warning bell in your ears.

So painfully human, after all.

xxx

x

You've never wanted anyone to touch you before. And yet here you are, sprawled naked across your neatly-made bed in the dark with your all-seeing eyes closed, pretending that your wandering hands belong to him.

It will never be real. But John is away visiting his sister for Christmas, and you can imagine. So you do.

You imagine him taking hold of you.

He would be firm, but very generous. You don't know what you're doing and inside your mind palace it translates into caution on his part. Slow, languid strokes at first, until he works out what you like most, and then he moves with more confidence. A building heat in the pit of your stomach, a tightening of fingers around you, a thumb pressed just under the head, coming away slick and _oh hell_, you _do_ know what that is. He works you against a backdrop of deep, lingering kisses, and you're so absorbed you don't notice little noises slipping out of your mouth, keening whines, low grunts, mewls and moans. Burning, everywhere. Fire coiling just under the surface. _Oh, God! _He looks at you with a hot, sparkling gaze, pupils blown wide with arousal because he wants you, actually _wants_ you. You're a desirable thing in his eyes, your scars trophies and your broken parts in need of love and he wants to make you feel good, wants you to have this – you're slick now, and he looks right at you as he speeds up, _coiling coiling good God so tight_, and he hits the nerves under your glans on every upward stroke and you can't help but rhythmically rock your hips into his fist and then he's leaning down and he's kissing you _John John John _and he pulls just one more time and –

It's an eclipse. A tidal wave, a mushroom cloud engulfing you, enveloping you in a sudden rush of endorphins and hormones that make up _ecstasy_. It bursts through your veins, makes your limbs go rigid and your back arch of its own volition, makes your mind go blank, makes your stomach cramp and toes curl and a surprised, drawn-out cry tear itself from your lungs. A name. His name. When the fog clears from your head, you're panting. Gasping for air, actually, heart pounding away. It's still dark. Your cheeks are wet. There's semen cooling on your belly, and you're completely alone.

xxx

x

You are lying.

Living.

_John starts dating again in the New Year. "My resolution," he sighs. "I need to move on." He doesn't say what from, and you don't ask. You're too busy clutching at the arms of your chair, fingertips digging into the material, willing the floor to open up beneath you. You hope it'll swallow you whole._

Dying.

_The women are all the same. Blonde, petite, curvaceous. One after the other until you can hardly bear it anymore. You'd give anything for it to stop, the same way you'd sell your soul just to have John smile, have him run a careful hand over the back of your head in that affectionate manner he adopts when he thinks you're sleeping._

Inhale.

_Three years since your return from the dead, you realise something that you should have known from the very start._

Exhale.

_You are utterly, awfully, irrevocably in love._

xxx

x

It hits you late one night, curled up sulking on the sofa with that godforsaken ache throbbing in the centre of your chest. You're on the verge of shooting at the wall again when the door of the flat creaks open. So lost in thought were you that you didn't hear footsteps on the stairs. You turn to look over your shoulder. "John?" The doctor smiles, tired but sincere as he shrugs off his jacket.

"Right where I left you, eh?" A scan of his body takes mere seconds, and it's an effort to keep your tone nonchalant when you ask,

"She wasn't who you thought she was, I take it?" Something squeezes in your navel, recalling John's hopeful grin from a few hours ago. He'd told you not to wait up; which meant, obviously, that he'd anticipated intercourse to occur tonight.

Shaking his head, John sighs. "Nothing like that," he says. "I just…" He trails off, wandering into the kitchen to throw his coat over a chair and put the kettle on. You wait, heart thrumming impatiently, until he calls through a few moments later, "It's nothing. I'd much rather be here, anyway." And you don't know why those words echo in your ears the way they do. Why they make an involuntary smile turn up the corners of your mouth, why the pain in your chest dissolves into warmth and _something strange_, something unknown. At least, not until John sits down in his armchair with tea and a book, and starts to read aloud to you in a gentle, calming voice. The firelight plays on the lines of his face and the knit of his jumper, and you wonder if perhaps you could stay like this forever, if not at least until you die, and you hope when you do that you're both old and grey and you're lying here, dozing, listening to John's voice as he reads.

And you know. You just _know_.

It is the only explanation, however absurd; it explains why your happiness is undeniably linked to his, why that one, solitary orgasm was not enough to curb your increasing physical urges. It explains the smiles, and the shivers, and the dreams and the fantasies and the hot, burning, painful jealousy that you feel every time he brings a new woman back to the flat. _You_ – the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective – have finally fallen victim to the worst chemical defect known to mankind, and all because of a jumper-wearing, blogging ex-soldier with a fondness for tea and an addiction to danger.

You are in love.

You are in love with John.

xxx

x

"It's not too late, you know." Mycroft's face is hopeful, legs gracefully crossed and umbrella propped up against the side of John's armchair. You glance up from plucking at violin strings. "John officially informed you that he intends to take himself out of the dating pool, did he not?" Your watch ticks away the afternoon, counting down the minutes until John returns from the weekly shopping run. Quietly, you murmur in response,

"Yes. Two days ago."

"And why do you think that is?" Though far from condescending, Mycroft's tone makes your lips press together momentarily; your brother is and always has been frustratingly persistent.

"He continuously failed to find a suitable woman with whom to 'settle down'," you answer. Your gaze wanders over the wood of the violin, polished to a high shine, a habitual task reserved for the countless nights where thoughts of blue eyes and tan skin steal the sleep from you. "As such he's given up on ever having the family life he has always desired." Mycroft drums his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"You know as well as I do that there's more to it than that."

"No, I don't believe I do."

"Will you just – " Your eyes snap up sharply, finding Mycroft's and holding them, unwavering. Whatever your brother sees there, it makes him close his mouth.

"I will not have this discussion with you," you rumble out. Your voice seems to roll like thunder in the otherwise silent room. "And I will not allow myself to see hope where there is none."

"Sherlock – "

"_No._" You imagine John's reaction if he were to walk in now. Just how loud would he shout? How long would it take him to pack his things and move out, if he knew what your brother would have you believe? Mycroft is watching you soberly, and that's another thing about the eldest Holmes – very rarely will he be the first to break eye contact. For a long while that's all you do. Simply look at one another as the tension mounts, and the unspoken words deafen you both with their truth. Then,

"All I want is for you to be happy, Sherlock," Mycroft says. The admission is unusually gentle, an anomaly in itself. "Are you? Are you happy?" His protectiveness has always told you that he cares, and though hearing it aloud is something of a surprise you refuse to let yourself be swayed.

You think of John and the women whose advances he has begun to politely reject, the determination he seems to be putting into remaining unattached. You think of the quiet, simple nights in you spend together by the fire and of how loving him brings you little pain anymore, not now that you have a chance to keep him forever. No, the undeniably heterosexual, heteroromantic doctor does not love you. He never will. But he is your partner nonetheless, your companion and confidante, the sun to your moon. And it is enough. Just about. "Yes," you answer, still holding Mycroft's gaze. "I am as happy as I will ever get the chance to be. As I will ever deserve to be." Your eyes drop back to the violin, fingers continuing to tune the instrument. "I will not give that up, Mycroft. Not for the world." Your brother studies you for a further minute, no doubt trying to deduce the sincerity of your response. Then his shoulders droop, and with a deep sigh he eases himself out of John's chair.

"Alright," is all he says. "Alright."

xxx

x

You are forty-one years old. With today's modern science and medicine you estimate that you'll see at least another thirty years, perhaps forty. If the drug-using and body-abusing days of your past don't can't up with you. Hopefully they won't, not as long as you have John as your doctor. So of course, the question then becomes one not of how much time you have left, but of how you plan to spend it.

You find yourself mulling this over increasingly often as the work continues to pour in, each case a little more high-profile than the last, a little more exotic, and realise that there may need to be a change to your original plan. Fifty years of age has always seemed like a suitable time for retirement: old enough that the transport isn't quite up to sprinting the streets of London anymore, but young enough that your mind will still be sharp and fast. You could write a book, a real, knowledgeable tome on the science of deduction. Keep bees to study them in your spare time. Work cases as an actual consultant, for once.

But all of that may have to wait a bit longer. Your expertise is being now requested in the highest circles, and not just in the UK. Evidently your name is spreading through the governments of the world, probably Mycroft's doing – an effort to ensure that you truly are happy. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that 'fame' is about to finally find you, delaying any retirement plans indefinitely. But you don't mind. Because you know that, when your body at last demands you call it a day on chasing criminals, no matter where on this Earth you retire to or what you do with your life next, you will be with John.

And that is all you could ever want.

xxx

x

You are changing.

Waxing.

_There's a case that takes you back to India. You spend a week examining corpses and being dragged around the Taj Mahal by an over-excited blogger, biting your tongue the whole time – because as beautiful as the architecture may be, it will never hold a candle to a certain ex-army doctor._

Waning.

_Another case takes you to Budapest. Paris. Minsk. An art theft in Rome, where you play violin as the sun sets and John drinks tea on the balcony of your hotel room. A triple murder in Montreal, where he shivers in the snow and all you want is to tuck him inside the folds of your greatcoat, safe and warm. Insurance fraud in New York, where you study the scar on his shoulder as he sleeps, growing paler and less angry with time, and wonder if yours will ever do the same._

Inhale.

_You love John Watson in every major city of every country in the world, in sun and rain, fire and ice._

Exhale.

_He doesn't feel the same. You force a smile and think how ironic it is that you, of all people, have love enough for two._

xxx

x

You celebrate your forty-second birthday in Prague – or at least, John reminds you of what day it is when he pushes a badly-wrapped package of navy cashmere into your hands. He's bought you a new scarf, to replace the one torn on barbed wire in Glasgow, and you spend the rest of the day smiling whenever the doctor cannot see. In between overseas cases, the two of you catch the next flight back to England and pass the time with experiments, takeout and crap telly. The dry spells between Lestrade's crime scenes don't seem so mind-numbingly dull anymore, not when it's a chance for you and your blogger to just coexist; a chance to be close to John, who grins and laughs more than ever now.

It's there, home in London, that he turns forty-seven, and you sheepishly present him with the shiny new wristwatch that he'd been eyeing up in Harrods. Honestly, you'd think the man would have relaxed about spending money given that you've long since started sharing finances. John flushes a charming shade of pink, seemingly quite taken by the gesture. But he quickly covers it up with a light cough, and a good-natured joke about the full head of silver that he's finally acquired. He completely misses the thumbs-up that Angelo gives you from behind the bar. And if he notices that the back of the timepiece is engraved with the date of your first meeting, eight years ago, well...perhaps it's for the best that he says nothing. Still, in the back of your mind you can't help but imagine an entirely different scenario altogether.

You imagine that Angelo has provided a candle this time, several candles, and his finest bottle of wine. You imagine that the soft gleam in John's eye is not just happiness, but adoration – the kind that you now know comes from having loved a person for many years, even if it took you a long time to realise it yourself. Total and utter human devotion. You imagine that John does notice the engraving and that his smile is not just at you, but _for_ you, and he leans forward across the table and murmurs, _thank you, love_. Slides his fingers into your curls, brings your mouths together in front of the whole restaurant and you want them all to see, want them all to know that you are his and he is _yours_, only yours, and always will be, _always_ –

You are certain that this wish is a step too far, but as time passes it is becoming harder and harder to resist indulging in fantasy. Because even though you are broken, a burnt and spoiled shell that he could never desire, even though twisted, terrible memories plague a tired and haunted mind that he could never love…even though you can never have him, John has ensured the continued beating of your vulnerable heart.

And in the process, he has become it.

xxx

x

It is over.

You know it, feel it deep in your bones and already the darkness inside you is crawling under your skin, begging to be released from the prison in which it was sealed. A black door creaking on rusty hinges, straining under the weight of pressing emptiness. You will not let it out until he is gone. You are afraid it will consume you.

John doesn't speak. He won't even look at you, and in the end it's Lestrade who calls a taxi and sends you both back to Baker Street, yourself bundled in a thick blanket, shaking. Nausea roils cold and icy in the pit of your stomach, your skin seeming almost translucent in the rear-view mirror. None of it has anything to do with a plunge into the Thames, chasing after a mindless drug-addict. You should have been more careful. _You should have been more careful_.

In the flat, you toss the blanket onto the sofa.

John's brow creases as he folds his arms across his chest.

"Explain."

You press your lips together and flex shaking fingers, your sodden shirt hanging open on your shoulders. He'd torn off your tie in his desperation to check you for wounds and in an instant it was too late – before you even knew what was happening, your marred body was exposed. Your throat convulses, pulse roaring in your ears and you plead with him, silently, _don't make me say it out loud, John, don't make me._ "_Sherlock_." His voice reverberates through you, gentle but commanding. "Tell me." And you have never been able to deny him anything, so you do. Mouth dry, heart pounding, you tell him.

"Sebastian Moran." The name is a hoarse whisper on your lips, enough to strike a note of fear inside you even now. "In Poland. He wanted revenge for Moriarty's death." John goes very, very still. A long, tense moment passes.

"And is he – ?"

"Dead. I made certain." The doctor's jaw tightens, but this admission seems to make him relax slightly. He gives a nod.

"Good."

You lapse into a silence so painful it reminds you of needles and knives, matches and blood and burning flesh. It threatens to deafen you both with the weight of the unasked.

The breath you take stings your lungs like poison, and perhaps it is, for the words you speak next quiver uncontrollably in the air between you. "I didn't want you to see me." John's face starts to soften, features smoothing out; you look away so you won't see the pity that will undoubtedly appear there next. Gaze shifting to the carpet, your lashes brush against your cheeks as you close your eyes, and the truth at last spills out. "I didn't want you to know about what happened. Of all people, you would be the one most likely to make a connection between physical and mental scars. And I could never match up, not to any of the women, not to Victoria or Mary, because I'm _this_, John, I am this and all I will do is ruin you, ruin you…" But John is taking a step forward, and another, closing the distance.

"Sherlock," he murmurs, and the tone of his voice makes your heart skip a beat. A shiver runs down your spine. "Look at me." And God help you but you do, you look up and there he is, mere inches away, with his jumper still damp from tugging your soaking form up out of the river. His expression is completely unreadable, though a familiar gleam brightens his eyes. And then a sigh, slow and heavy, and a smile twitches at the corner of his lips. "You _still _don't know, do you?"

You are struck dumb by the warmth of his breath against your mouth.

John's hand slides suddenly into your shirt, over skin, over rough ridges and dips and scar tissue, unfaltering, and a mixture of fear and disbelief hitches the breath in your throat. "I have only ever truly wanted one person." He follows the slight pucker of a burn across your left breast, as if tracing a delicate sculpture, an invaluable work of art – and when he finds and gently rolls your nipple under his thumb, and you gasp and your knees quake and determined fingers fist in the back of your curls, John breathes out the one word you've been waiting for all your life:

"…_You_."

And in that one word, you understand. You understand everything.

The door to the dark, empty space within you bursts open.

He kisses you hard, and fills it with fire.

xxx

x

You are healing.

Externally.

_He dips his fingertips into the ink of your secrets and soul and he writes the words, one letter at a time across the surface of your skin. Tattoos over scars with fantasies. Etches promise through gaping holes in the fabric of your being. Paints ruined, milky canvas in a dazzling spectrum of light and colour: cool blue for the burns on your back, for the hot knives and angry lines. Blood red for the old track marks in the crook of your arm, remnants of lonely days and hollow nights. Smiling yellow for the dark bruises beneath your eyes. Soothing green for the closing fissure in your chest where a whole heart wildly beats, full and yearning for another. _

Internally.

_His callused palms are even softer than you thought, light as feathers on the damaged parts of you, gentle as a breeze. And for the first time you feel like a treasure, something to be coveted and worshipped. A thing of beauty and delicacy and not the freakish ugliness you have been so firmly convinced of in the past._

Exhale.

_Afterwards, he brushes the damp curls back from your forehead. You slip trembling fingers up over his chest, feel the steadying thumpthumpthump of his heartbeat next to yours._

Inhale.

"_I've waited so long for you," he says._

And you don't have to imagine anymore.

xxx

x

**Fin**


End file.
